Aftermath
by Gil Shalos1
Summary: Series of drabbles. A different take on Aftershock. Originally a one shot, but Elisabeth Carmichael suggested otherwise, and this is what the muse sent.
1. Aftermath

A different take on _Aftershock. _I own nothing

Aftermath

* * *

"You can't blame yourself," Anita Van Buren says softly. She looks at the lawyer sitting across from her, noting the too-loose suit, the shadowed eyes – the smell of whiskey although it's barely 10 am.

"I know." The answer comes in a voice hoarse with grief and rage. "But it's my fault, all the same. That missed call. If only – "

"You can't think like that," Anita says. "You _can't._"

Claire looks at her, shaking her head. "If I'd been there to pick him up, he would never have been walking home. And when that drunk driver ran the light – "

* * *


	2. Afterimage

* * *

Afterimage

* * *

Sometime Claire thinks she sees him.

Not at home – they never shared domesticity.

She thinks she sees him on the steps of the courthouse, disappearing through the doors, or from the corner of her eye in a case conference room that turns out to be empty.

Or in his office, except it's someone else's office, now.

Liz Olivet explained to her that it's normal, that it happens to lots of people. It's grief.

_Just grief._

Claire knows it isn't Jack, turning the corner ahead of her on the way to Hogan Place. She's not crazy.

She runs anyway.

Every time.

* * *


	3. Aftertaste

* * *

aftertaste

* * *

Claire drinks whiskey now. It doesn't taste the same in a glass as it did on Jack's lips, but it's close enough.

She insists on prosecuting all their outstanding cases herself. It gives her a year, almost: seeing Jack's handwriting on the files, being reminded what he said about this witness, that point of law.

Then she rests the People's case on the last one and he's gone.

So she drinks whiskey. She's given up her perfume and wears men's cologne. That smells different, too, on her skin rather than his, but it's close enough.

_Close as she'll ever get._

* * *


	4. Afterlife

* * *

Afterlife

* * *

"For a while there I thought you were going to quit," Adam says.

"I decided that I like it here," Claire says.

The glance he gives her is keen and penetrating, but he's kind enough not to say what he must be thinking. _That I haunt Hogan Place like Miss Haversham in her mansion_, Claire thinks.

"Well, congratulations on your latest conviction," Adam says, raising his glass. "You're top of the tenth floor league, now."

"It'll be a while before that's true," Claire says, because unlike Adam, she's not only counting _living _lawyers.

"Ah, Claire," Adam sighs, looking suddenly old.

* * *


	5. After time

* * *

after time

* * *

Tears come on her suddenly – in the shower, in the car. In the bodega, as she buys milk and pre-sliced tasteless bread. In a heartbeat she misses Jack so much she can't breathe and it's like the first instant she knew, really _knew_, and she's crying so hard she can't stand up.

Time passes. The crying jags become less frequent. Claire can go weeks and weeks with nothing more than the bone-deep ache in her chest, the ache she's grown so used to she hardly notices it anymore.

She knows Liz Olivet would say she's healing.

That's progress, she supposes.

* * *


	6. After all

* * *

after all

* * *

Claire has lunch with Liz Rodgers every year or so.

They're not friends. They have nothing in common, and Claire finds Rodgers brusque and a little odd.

But Rodgers took her to the morgue when Claire needed to see for herself. And when she touched Jack's arm and felt how cold he was, it was Rodgers who caught her in wiry arms and stroked her hair awkwardly and said all the wrong things.

So, lunch. And Christmas cards. And when Lennie Briscoe dies, it's Claire's doorstep Rodgers turns up on, stiff and silent.

They have something in common after all.

* * *


	7. After dark

* * *

after dark

* * *

Leaning back in her chair, Claire catches her reflection in the window. As always, recognition needs a second glance.

Long hair, streaked with grey, pinned up in an elegant twist – years ago her hairdresser persuaded her she was too old for the bob. Fashions have changed with the years, as has her face – sparer, less pretty, more beautiful.

She's not Jack McCoy's girl anymore. She's ADA Kincaid, terror of defense attorneys, role model for female law students around the country.

Claire smiles at her reflection, checking for warmth and sympathy, expressions juries like to see.

She's no-one's _girl_.

She's no-one's.

* * *


	8. Afterthought

* * *

afterthought

* * *

"You've worked hard for it," the young ADA says loyally. "Twenty years!"

_Was I ever that young? _

_Yes. Younger, even, when I first met Jack._

"Did you think it would take you this long to make EADA?" her assistant asks. Claire returns to the present.

"I never thought about it," she says honestly. "I got into for justice. Then I found out that justice is the byproduct of winning. The career? An afterthought."

He nods, wide-eyed, and she sees him surreptitiously note down her words of wisdom. It makes her laugh.

It makes her feel old.

_Older than Jack, now._

* * *


	9. Afterwards

* * *

afterwards

* * *

It was someone else's office for a long time but Claire's erased every trace. No need to worry about sideways looks – there's no-one who's been at Hogan Place long enough to realize she's put the office back the way it used to be.

_They just think I have old-fashioned taste. _

With her back turned she can believe that Jack is writing at the desk behind her, his ring catching the light as he lifts his hand to run his fingers through his hair.

"Can we deal?" the defense attorney asks.

"Man One," Claire says without hesitation. "He does the maximum."

* * *


	10. Ever after

* * *

ever after

* * *

Claire is so tired.

As she lies down on the couch she remembers the first time she ever did this, waiting for Jack, down in a dark well of sleep until he woke her. _Hey, Sleeping Beauty, _he'd teased. 

She'd thought he might kiss her, like the Prince in the fairy tale, but no. _Not then_.

But fairy tales are lies. There's no happy-ever-after, no Prince Charming. _By the time I worked that out it was too late. _

So tired it makes her nauseous, Claire closes her eyes. Sharp pain in her left arm makes her gasp.

_Hey, Sleeping Beauty._

* * *


End file.
